


Four Tankards Later

by MsPercival



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Camelot, Canon Era, Drinking, Drunkenness, Fluff, Funny, Gen, Humor, knights of camelot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-14 17:10:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4572798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsPercival/pseuds/MsPercival
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sir Percival enjoys a little too much of Gwaine’s Frankish wine, and this is the result. This story is two chapters long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spiced Frankish Wine

Chapter 1 – Spiced Frankish Wine

Sir Percival swallowed the last gulp of his fourth (large) tankard of spiced Frankish wine. He blinked his eyes rapidly and shook his head, hoping such actions would clear his fuzzy vision and his straighten-out his muddy thinking: they didn't. Camelot's largest and strongest knight wasn't much of a drinker, but he'd been known to enjoy a flagon or two of ale now and again. And due to his considerable size, on a typical day, he imbibed without worrying about intoxication. However, this wine was potent, like nothing he'd ever consumed.

“Gwaine,” slurred Percival, “what the hell was in that... that... brink, I mean, drink… You know what I mean!”

Sir Gwaine cackled, quite inebriated himself. The two friends sat on the floor, because somehow, sitting in Gwaine's dining table chairs no longer seemed necessary. Or fun. Or possible.

“It's good ol’ Frankish wine, my friend,” bellowed Gwaine. “The strongest in the known lands.” He then tipped backward and lay sprawled-out on his hearthrug.

Somehow, Percival remained seated upright, but swiveled his head and stared at his prostrate best friend with unfocused eyes, then laughed hysterically.

“It is strong!” declared Percival with a drunken snort, which made both men laugh even harder.

Gawain dragged himself upright. “Well, the wine's gone; what should we do now?”

Percival clapped his hands on his friend's shoulders with a bit too much force. “I know what I'm going to do – I am going to go talk to a woman!”

This was quite the declaration coming from Percival, a man known to become so tongue-tied in the presence of ladies he could scarcely spit out a coherent sentence. Around women whom he was comfortable, he was fine; he didn't have a problem speaking with Queen Guinevere, his chambermaid, the kitchen maids, or many other women in the city. But when confronted with new ladies, or women he found attractive, he turned into a total prating mess.

A while back, when Princess Mithian had visited Camelot, Percival had inadvertently called her “Your Flyness,” and he still hadn't lived down that blunder. And even worse, when he'd visited the tavern last month and had met the pretty new barmaid, he'd been reduced to near mutism. It had been a humiliating experience, but Gwaine had been there to cover for him.

“Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad idea, man,” babbled Gwaine. “If you want a woman in your bed tonight, let  _me_  do the talking for you. Remember what happened last time?”

Percival waved his hand drunkenly in his friend's face. “I'm fine now. Feeling really good! And I don't want to go to  _bed_  with a woman, I just want to  _talk_  to one.”

“You never want to go to bed with a woman!” said Gwaine with a roar of laughter.

“That's. Not. True,” declared Percival, poking his friend in the chest as he spoke each word. “I just haven't found the right one yet, but I will. All great love affairs start with a conversation, don't they?” he asked, standing. He then stumbled and tripped over a chair, upending it. Yet he somehow remained on his feet.

Still seated on the floor, wobbling Gwaine asked, “Which woman, then? The kitchen maid? You know the one I’m talking about, that one who’s about half as tall as you and weighs a good fifteen stone?” Gwaine could no longer contain himself and dissolved into a hysterical fit of drunken laughter.

“There’s nothing wrong with her!” insisted Percival, steadying himself against the table. “She’s a lovely and kind woman. But no, I am going to talk to the new barmaid. So there, Gwaine!”

Percival staggered toward the chamber door and flung it open.

“You’ll never make it down to the tavern!” Gwaine bellowed after him. “Hell, I’ll never make it down there. Don’t do it, Percival!”

Heedless of Gwaine’s warning, Percival stumbled down the castle corridor, his hand pressed against the wall to steady his steps. He’d show that damn Gwaine. He’d show all the knights he was more than a “hulking daisy,” one of their favorite nicknames for him. After all, normal men spoke with women all the time. And half of the knights seemed to have new women in their beds each week! Percival had no idea how they managed that. He was terrible at approaching women and he knew it. None of his fellow knights knew that he’d been with only one woman – even Gwaine had no idea. And Percival’s singular brief tryst had happened when he was seventeen; it was the woman’s idea, and it had turned out to be quite the disaster. Percival didn’t even want to think about it right now.

Well, if he was ever going to manage an actual relationship with a woman, he’d have to learn to open his mouth in front of her and  _not_ talk nonsense. Or become a mute.

“Liquid courage,” he mumbled to himself as he wobbled along. “I’m going to do it! I will talk to her.”

_To be continued…_


	2. One Angry King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here is the second and final chapter of this brief story. Thank you for stopping by to read!

Chapter 2 – One Angry King

Percival staggered forth, utterly pissed, and he felt burning acid rise into his throat while his gut churned with nausea. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been sick from too much drink, but it had been a long, long time. However, he realized his vomit-free streak was about to end forthwith. The man moved along faster, still gripping the wall, praying he could make it to the privy closet where he could heave up his guts in relative private. Unfortunately, at that moment, Queen Guinevere and King Arthur walked down the corridor, arm-in-arm. Percival knew he had to greet his leaders, and he executed an unsteady bow as they approached.

“Your High –” Percival started out, but he couldn’t control the rush of vomit that escaped his mouth and splattered all over the front of Guinevere’s fine red dress.

“Percival, what on earth is wrong with you!” shouted the king. “You smell like a damn winery!”

“It’s all right, Arthur,” said Guinevere. However, it appeared as if the sight and smell of the vomit had made her ill, and the queen leaned forward and was sick also.

Arthur, now a pale shade of green, turned away from the scene, yet unfortunately, he vomited, too.

There stood Percival, Queen Guinevere, and King Arthur, the floor and their persons covered with sick. No one knew what to do.

“Guards!” Arthur shouted, and two guards came upon the trio, promptly covering their mouths and noses.

“One of you, please escort my queen to our chambers so she can get changed,” ordered the king. “And if the other one would please escort Sir Percival to the dungeons so he can sober up, I’d appreciate it.”

“I’m so sorry, Your Highnesses,” moaned Percival. “Please forgive me.”

As the guard grasped Percival’s thick arm, Gwaine stumbled upon the disorderly scene.

“The man can’t hold his liquor!” a rowdy Gwaine announced to his king, laughing. “I told him my wine was strong.”

King Arthur turned to the guard. “And please escort Sir Gwaine to the dungeons, too, for abetting this drunken disaster.”

Gwaine’s eyes widened. “What? Why me?”

But before the guard reached Gwaine’s side, the knight spun on his heel and ran for the privy closet, but didn’t make it. After he finished retching, the guard escorted Sir Percival and Sir Gwaine to the dungeons. The men were tossed into the dank cell and the iron bars locked behind them.

Percival, still feeling sick to his stomach, dropped right down onto the smelly hay-covered floor and closed his eyes.

“If I vomit again, Gwaine, it’ll be on YOU. This is all your fault!”

“This is not exactly the evening I had planned, either,” said Gwaine. “But don’t worry; the night will go by fast.”

Percival cracked one eye open and peered at Gwaine. “How do you know? How many times have you been in the dungeon overnight?”

“Ten? Twenty? It’s a good place for a man to sober-up and consider his station in life,” Gwaine offered with a shrug.

“Just stay away from me, Gwaine,” said Percival with a sigh.

Gwaine lay down right next to his friend. “Come on, man, you still love me,” he jested.

“Not at the moment.”

Percival had never spent a night in the dungeons, and he’d never had the king angry with him before; he wondered if Arthur would remain furious for a long time. Then again, if Gwaine had really spent twenty nights in the dungeons for behaving like a drunken fool, perhaps Arthur would forgive Percival, too. King Arthur loved his knights and was probably willing to overlook such an act, especially since it was the first time Percival had done such a thing.

However, Percival _had_ gotten sick all over the queen. Even if Arthur forgave him, he shuddered at the thought of facing Guinevere again. And there was still that matter of that sweet, alluring new barmaid.

 _I’ll apologize to the queen,_ Percival thought. _And I’ll find a way to talk to the barmaid,_   _sober, normal, and without Gwaine’s help._

He was determined to set things right, and to overcome his crippling shyness around women. And for some odd reason, tonight, he felt as if he might be able to do it. At last.

**The End**

 


End file.
